Page 19 of Held-

He studies me, his head tilting slightly. “That's new for you, isn't it?”

“Very.” I wrap my arms around myself against the sudden chill. “I spent my whole marriage caring what everyone else thought. It's exhausting.”

He picks up my helmet from where it rests against the log. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Cece. Especially not with me.”

As we walk back to his motorcycle, I'm struck by how comfortable this feels—being here with him, away from the prying eyes of San Salona. It's like stepping outside of my life and into a different version where I'm braver, less constrained.

“What's the club business?” I ask as he hands me the helmet.

“Nothing that'll make the evening news,” he says, helping me fasten the helmet again. His fingers brush my neck as he adjusts the strap, and I have to resist the urge to lean into the touch. “Just some business with another club passing through our territory. Routine stuff.”

I want to ask what “routine stuff” means when it involves motorcycle clubs, but something in his tone tells me it's not really my business to know. Instead, I settle for, “Why do I feel like routine to you is like everyone else’s headline on the six o’clock news?”

He pauses, his hands still on the helmet strap. “You worried about me, princess?”

The nickname makes my stomach flutter again, but this time I don't protest. “Maybe. Is that stupid?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his voice is gentle. “It's stupid. And...” He trails off, shaking his head like he's arguing with himself.

“And what?”

“And kind of nice.” He steps back, running a hand through his dark hair. “It's been a while since someone gave a shit whether I made it home in one piece.”

My chest tightens at the admission. I want to tell him that's not true, that surely someone worries about him, but I realize I don't actually know anything about his life. Does he have someone waiting for him back in Carlsbad? A girlfriend who knows exactly what kind of business he handles for the club?

The thought bothers me more than it should.

“Come on,” he says, swinging his leg over his bike before settling on the seat. “Wanna make a lap around Main Street and watch all the old ladies clutch their pearls?”

I bite back a smile as the engine roars beneath him, the sound vibrating straight through me. I don’t know why I say yes. Maybe because I don’t want the moment to end, maybe becausethe thought of wrapping my arms around him feels recklessly tempting.

So I swing my leg over and slide onto the seat behind him, my heart already racing faster than the bike ever could.

BRAYDEN

I've never understoodmen who celebrate with women they don't give a shit about. The music's pounding so hard it's making my teeth rattle, but that doesn't stop Domino from grinding against some chick dressed like a North Pole fantasy gone wrong. Red and white striped thigh-highs, a “dress” that barely covers her ass, and a Santa hat tilted at what I'm guessing is supposed to be a seductive angle.

The clubhouse is packed wall-to-wall with bodies. Our Carlsbad chapter knows how to throw a party, and tonight they've outdone themselves. Christmas lights strung acrossevery surface, booze flowing like the second coming, and enough club girls to staff a small army of Mrs. Clauses—if Mrs. Claus wore crotchless panties and did body shots.

“Brother, you look like you're at a fucking funeral,” Big says, materializing next to me with two shot glasses. He pushes one into my hand, amber liquid sloshing over the rim. “Drink up. It's a party for Christ's sake.”

I down the whiskey in one swallow, letting it burn all the way to my stomach. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit.” He leans against the bar beside me, eyeing the room with satisfaction. “You've been in your head since we got back from that church gig. What's eating at you?”

“Nothing.”

Everything.

My phone burns a hole in my pocket, screen dark with a message that hasn't come. It's been three days since I dropped Cece back at the church, watched her walk away with that glance over her shoulder that nearly made me turn off the bike and follow her inside.

“Jesus, you're even ignoring the sweet butts,” Big continues, nodding toward Rabbit, who’s hovering nearby with a bottle of Jack, waiting for permission to refill my glass. I motion him over, if only to shut Big up.

“I'm fine,” I insist, letting Rabbit pour me another shot. “Just thinking about the run tomorrow.”

Big snorts. “The run to San Salona? Again? That's the third time this week you've found an excuse to ride through that prissy little town.”

I shoot him a look that would make most men back off. Big just grins wider, the asshole.